Choices

Things were not right. Why did I not stop him? His goodbyes had seemed so final, his eyes sometimes glazed over as he spoke them. He looked a mess; he was shaking, his hair seemed to be falling out in places,

“No, I have been pulling it out, it is a bad habit but I cannot seem to stop myself,” he had said on the subject. There were dark bags under his eyes, as if he had not slept in weeks, “I do not remember,” he replied when I asked when he had last slept. His room was a mess; he had not let any servants in there for ages, as he had thought they were conspiring against him. Broken bottles littered the floor; his bed sheets were covered in vomit, urine, and god knows what. I stooped down to pick up some of the bottles and changed the bed sheets in a weak attempt to tidy up the room a bit.

I helped him undress and bathe, as it had seemed that he had forgone that as well. He was literally wasting away, I could see his bones sticking out from under his skin, and he could not recall when he had last been able to eat anything. I then dressed him and put him to bed, as he did not seem able to do such things himself. After that, I had locked myself up in the guest room one of the servants had shown me. It had all been too much to take.

My dear friend certainly was not in his right mind, he was just like a child. He longed for some company, a parental figure, or perhaps more and I suppose he was trying to find all of this in me.

“No,” I had told him, “I have a family that needs taking care of, and how can I possibly take care of you as well?” I still feel bad for answering his call for help like that. It is no wonder he ended up killing himself, with friends like I.